


Come Back to Bed

by Sweet_garlic



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Allusions to sexytimes, England falls off the bed, Fluff, M/M, Start out enemies, but mostly cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweet_garlic/pseuds/Sweet_garlic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France wants to end his enmity with England, and ends up using after-sex cuddling to get closer to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back to Bed

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've finished in months. Lots of allusions to sex, but nothing explicit. I hope you enjoy!

France and Britain had been enemies for centuries, but France felt like it was time to put their past arguments behind them. They’re mature now, countries who have learned to respect human life and to live in peace with each other. For many of the European nations, borders meant little and national pride was more continental than before. Countries that had once been murderous were now working together harmoniously; France and Britain were the only ones that still had national dislike, but France was ready to put that behind him. He kept up their banter, but rarely bothered with harmful insults. Sometimes, he forgot his enmity with the British nation, and was more than ready to become proper friends with him.

The only problem: Britain still despised him.

Oh, he was polite enough when he had to be, but he constantly pushed away France and his offers for friendlier relations. Arthur barely even knew why he despised the other nation, but he didn’t need a reason; sustained hostility between the two had fueled Britain for so long, and his engines were still running. He hated everything about France - his food, his language, his culture.

His body.

Britain hated to admit how France could make him scream, how his graceful fingers left paths of fire in their wake, how every kiss made the Brit shudder to his core with the feeling of lips on his neck, on his chest, everywhere.

Arthur had always disapproved of France’s open sexuality, how he would flirt with anything that moved and usually be successful enough to take the (lucky) person back to bed. It wasn’t proper, he would say. Almost more than he hated France, Britain hated to admit his jealousy.

Sometimes he’d drop the act and let the other nation take him to bed and they would move beneath the sheets, bodies warm and voices filling the air. Britain always departed before France could wake up, leaving the sour sense of I hate you in the air when he was gone. When those nights were finished, France would lie awake wishing he could make him stay and finally know more about the Brit besides the shade of his blush, the taste of his mouth, the jut of his hipbones.

Not that those were bad things. France always enjoyed the times Britain would go along with his suggestions, let their hot breath mingle in the cold air while France’s mouth painted masterpieces on pale skin. But - something was missing. It took him a while, but France now knew what it was. He was almost shocked that he hadn’t realized it sooner, but wasn’t surprised at all how Britain was oblivious to it.

France wanted to end their rivalry, and rather than go along with Britain’s loathing, he decided to work on his own agenda.

It was after one of their nights together. France’s silky hair was tossed about his head and his breathing was slow and even. Britain pushed his face into the pillow and ignored the soreness of his muscles as he slept. Even asleep, the two looked different: France, sprawled out on his back as if opening his arms for a lover, and Britain, curled on his side like someone waiting to be held in the safety of their lover’s arms. He would not let that lover be France.

When Britain opened his eyes, it was like every other night that had ended this way. He could only make out the alien smoothness of silk on his body, and stretched out luxuriously to savor the feeling. Then, the realization: the feeling of a warm body next to him (hopefully not America again) and the light scent of cigarettes and roses in the air (he knew that smell: France). Britain pushed himself up, feeling messy and tired. He let out a little grunt at the protests of his fatigued body. He was stiff and beginning to feel the chill in the night air. The window to his right provided a view of the Eiffel Tower, while the sheets to his left offered up the sight of a sleeping Frenchman.

Bloody frog, Britain thought to himself, but it was a faux feeling. His usual dislike couldn’t be sustained in his exhausted state. He felt a feeling almost like - regret? - an emotion that set deep in his bones, but he tossed it off with a sigh that barely breached the night air and instead moved to get out of the bed. The ancient bed frame creaked as the weight was shifted, but, bleary-eyed with weariness, Arthur chose to ignore it. He crawled on all fours to the edge of the huge mattress and-

Slipped.

There was a moment where everything simultaneously froze and moved faster than he could comprehend. The feeling of falling and losing control surrounded his body as gravity took control, and thousands of realizations, speculations, and fears were channeled into one shocked phrase:

“FUCK!” Arthur gasped when the silk sheets slipped off the edge of the bed and he went tumbling down with them. He landed in a tangled mess on the floor, grateful for the thick rug that softened the fall - without it, he would’ve landed on dark lacquered wood. Still, his body was bent at a painful angle and his face was pressed to the floor, and he grunted and rolled the rest of the way off the bed. A shuffling came from above him; Britain groaned when France leaned over the side of the mattress.

“Angleterre,” France observed, “you fell off the bed.”

“I know that, bloody frog. Don’t laugh at me!” Britain snapped.

France chuckled. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Britain, just at the silly things you do,” France said quietly, his mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes shining with something - adoration?

He probably wants another round, Britain thought to himself, groaning again and turning his head to the side.

Fingers brushed his cheek. Britain looked up in surprise to see France still smiling at him, stroking his face. For reasons he couldn’t understand, Britain felt the need to kiss the tips of France’s fingers, just brush his lips against them. Furrowing his brow, Britain dismissed the thought, but stared at France’s eyes, as if looking for an explanation of his feelings in them.

Soft fingers became a warm palm on the side of his face as the Frenchman murmured, “Come back to bed, Angleterre.”

For a moment, Britain was enraptured in the phrase - the way France’s voice dipped and swung with his accent, the movement of his lips as he spoke with a smile, the implications of deeper emotion held in the five simple words. If France had been asked, he would sworn that there were stars in Britain’s eyes. Britain would have sworn that he had never been affected because, after the stars subsided, the spell was broken and he brushed off France’s hand.

“I’d rather not. You may have an endless libido, but I’m tired. Goodnight,” Britain grunted harshly. He turned away, and began getting up to fetch his clothes. Fingers reached out to rest on his shoulder, trying to pull him back to the silk sheets of the bed. Britain sighed, recognizing the desire for - what? Sex? He couldn’t tell, but something about the way France held his shoulder, like a question, made him stop and look back. France moved his hand down his arm, as if reaching for his hand.

“Come back to bed,” the Frenchman whispered again. He wished more than anything that his beloved Brit would accept his invitation.

Britain glanced hesitantly at the hand on his shoulder, then moved slowly towards the bed. France shuffled away to make room, still lying halfway on his back. He looked like he was welcoming Britain to lie on his chest, and Britain almost allowed himself to take the offer. Instead, the nation lay down stiffly on his back, ready for France to make a move. His brows were furrowed as he glanced towards the other country. To his surprise, France simply pulled the covers over the two of them and laid down on his side facing his bedmate. There were no kisses, no searching hands. France wasn’t even lying that close - there was a respectful amount of space between the two, though France had extended a hand between them as if he wanted to hold Britain but was too shy. Arthur turned his head and looked at Francis, his brows furrowed. Francis gazed back with warm eyes and the smallest of coy smiles on his face. It was the most innocent Britain had seen him without a child around. The British nation assumed he would drop the act in a moment, moving closer to begin tired sex, but instead, France let out a tiny sigh of contentment and closed his eyes. Britain almost felt cheated.

“Well, you bugger?” he asked incredulously.

“Mm, what, Angleterre?” the French nation murmured, one eye barely opening.

“Wha-what are you doing? Aren’t you going to- to molest me or something?” Arthur pressed.

At this, Francis frowned. “You said you were tired. So am I, to be honest. And I wouldn’t want to molest you even if I wasn’t. What kind of nation do you think I am?” Francis asked.

A red stain emerged on the other nation’s face. “W-well- you’re always- so s-sexual, you know!” Britain stuttered. “Who knows what you’ll do,” he murmured.

“Angleterre,” Francis said, his quiet voice suddenly sounding stern. The tone of voice reminded Britain of when they were children, France acting as an older brother, taking charge to keep Britain safe. Britain winced slightly, knowing that France was serious now. “Angleterre,” France repeated, “if you are uncomfortable, please leave. That was not my intent.”

Britain gaped at France. He certainly hadn’t expected that. Chewing him out, threatening him, anything would have been more likely. “W-what?” Britain spluttered. He sat up and continued to stare at France, who continued to watch him lazily with one eye. “But-”

Britain was interrupted by France moving forward to push him back gently on the bed. France left his hand on the pale chest, opened both of his eyes, and Britain was caught up in staring at him. The stars from before were back - Britain was enraptured by France’s gaze and the feeling of his hand, and he wanted the touch him again. This time, he carried through, stroking the back of the Frenchman’s hand. “France,” he whispered, his brow still furrowed, “What?”

France let out a breathy laugh. “Angleterre,” he murmured, “you seem to forget that I am more the country of love than I am the country of lust. All that I ask of you is that you stay in bed with me.”

Britain considered France for a moment - the hair on his chest, the arm reaching out to him, the softness in his eyes. Something in him called for those arms to be around his shoulders, to bury his face in the warmth of his neck, to just be close to the Frenchman he pretended to hate.

It was pretending. It hadn’t always been, but Britain realized that, now, it was just pretending. And he didn’t want to pretend anymore.

The British man shuffled across the silk sheets to curl into the Frenchman’s arms. He tucked his own arms to his chest whilst France surrounded him with his body. Roses and cigarettes scented the air that Britain breathed, and he let himself smell France without needing to complain, to back away, or to get closer.

“This is strange,” he murmured.

“It is different,” France agreed.

“I-I’m alright with it,” Britain whispered, allowing his hands to rub the blonde hair on France’s chest.

“Hm. I would hope so,” France replied, his voice becoming deeper with weariness.

“France?”

“Oui, Angleterre?”

Silence.

“...Angleterre?”

Britain pushed himself closer to France. “I’m cold, you frog. I thought France was supposed to be warmer than Britain,” he whispered.

France chuckled. “It is warmer here, I promise, Angleterre,” he murmured, holding Britain tighter to his chest.

Britain smiled to himself. He allowed himself to be held, and he stayed in bed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really proud of the falling-off-the-bed description, okay  
> Thank you for reading, please comment!


End file.
